


All Work and No Play

by pauraque



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-01
Updated: 2002-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a night for Marita to be someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Work and No Play

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Harem's 500-word Halloween Challenge. Thanks for the spark, Maidenjedi. Credit also to Azar for the Grace Kelly thing.

Cold beside him in the ungainly black sedan, slowly dodging trick-or-treaters. Every time he catches a knot of children in the headlights, part of her isn't sure he'll stop.

They do have to eat. Even when they're running. Even when the crowds are out. They have money today, but who knows about tomorrow? So tonight they eat. Italian.

Flickering orange light comes from fake candelabras and blinking plastic pumpkins. Din of riotous college kids — purple David Bowie wigs, glints of vinyl and gold. On their way from one party to another, cheeks red from the cold outside, from laughing and drinking too much. Marita feels the blare of the music as a protecting blanket — anonymity in their dark corner.

Alex struggles with the wrapper of a tiny Snickers bar from the glitter-filled dish on the table. He tries to hold it between his pinky and thumb and tear away at the foil bit by bit, but eventually gives up and uses his teeth. She eats her fettuccine and pretends not to watch.

Beetlejuice crouches down beside their table. His eye makeup is smudged, and strands of brown hair are escaping from beneath his wig. He touches Alex on the shoulder. "Hey. You're the guy from The Fugitive. That's really cool."

Marita gives Alex a sharp kick under the table before he can react, and smiles. "Who am I?"

Beetlejuice takes her in. Slowly. "Grace Kelly."

She laughs, because it's a night to be someone else for a while.

Outside the frosted accordion window, there are people moving who don't know they can be seen, just distorted stripes of color — red, peach, black. Japanese tourists are taking flash pictures of each other by the door, posing with sequined glam-rockers. The food is spicier than she'd expected.

The waiter appears and sets two drinks down between them.

Alex looks up. "What's this?"

"Manhattans. From the couple at the bar." He points. These two twentysomething whateverthefucks are twisted around on their stools, watching them with tense anticipation.

The girl is a panther. Gothic eyeliner and whiskers. Fuzzy ears on a headband. A velvet halter-top cut to reveal the pale sides of her breasts. Toying with her tail. The boy is Douglas Macarthur in dress uniform. Lean. Mirrored sunglasses on his head and heavy boots perched on the crossbar of the stool. He keeps throwing glances back at the girl, licking his lips.

Marita arches an eyebrow. "What do you think?" she deadpans.

Alex smirks. "I think the guy's about to piss his pants."

She laughs. "Do you think they want to swap, or...?"

"Hard to say. You only need a fourth if you wanna play a hand of Bridge."

"True." She picks up one of the glasses. "Planning to drink this?"

"No..." Narrow, curious eyes.

She nods, and slowly pours the contents of one glass into the other. Then takes the one that's full to the surface-tension brim and brings it carefully to her lips, looking at the couple with a suggestive smile.


End file.
